


Hollow

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [9]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Whump, because this is Tommy Shelby, generally fucked up coping mechanisms, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: In which some people are worried and others are infuriating.





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Set between seasons 3 and 4 (after Skylark in this AU, but should make sense on it's own).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy has got his family out of prison, saved their necks, quite literally. He should feel relieved, he supposes, pleased that he’s accomplished his mission, executed his plan. But it's a pretty hollow victory knowing that they all hate his guts. Even Polly. But he can’t blame them and he can't change the situation either so he knocks back another whisky rather than think about it any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Skylark but can easily be read on its own.

The late afternoon sun is turning red in the sky, casting warm shadows across the desk in Tommy's grand study in his even fucking grander house, yet he feels anything but warm. He feels…what _does_ he feel? Numb. No, numb would be good. Detached perhaps. Empty. It’s strange really. He _should_ feel relieved, he supposes, pleased that he’s accomplished his mission, got his family out of jail, executed his plan. But it's a pretty hollow victory knowing that they all hate his guts. Even Polly. Especially Polly. But he can’t blame them and he can't change the situation so he knocks back another whisky rather than think about it any more.

There’s been no time for emotion these past few weeks – not that he ever has time for emotion – all his energy has been focused on getting his family out, running between London and Birmingham, planning, scheming and hustling his way through the mess. The combination of adrenaline, sleepless nights and a bone-deep fear that something else might happen to Charlie has been toxic. Somehow he’s kept himself upright, kept himself going, because he had no fucking choice, but now that everyone’s safe the facade of control is slipping. It's like he's crept out into the middle of a frozen lake only to realise that the ice beneath his feet is too fragile to hold him. Small cracks are appearing and all he can do is stand still and wait.

Some nights he feels like he’s physically falling, slipping down some unknown incline– heels kicking out in search of a non-existent foothold – because there is nothing and no one to stop this fall. Only lately it’s not just at night. During the day he has incessant jitters, can’t keep his legs still, smokes one cigarette after the other just to keep his hands busy. His mind is flitting too, darting erratically between thoughts, unable to maintain focus. Occassionally he just zones out altogether, loses track of where he is and doesn't even care enough to hide it. 

There are other symptoms too, unnerving and unpredictable. Right now he is too aware of his own pulse fluttering frantically in his neck, like a startled moth flapping to get out, to find the light. The exhaustion is all consuming and yet his body is wound so tight that sleep is utterly inconceivable, comes in short snatches at best, fuelled only by increasing amounts of whiskey.He knows the staff can see it, the way they tiptoe around him with concerned eyes. He doesn’t need their pity. Doesn’t need anyone.

Well, maybe there is one person. Strange really, how important the man has become.In the black, hollow months after Grace’s death he never thought he’d feel close to someone again...let alone someone like Alfie. He never imagined that beneath the volatility hid such tenderness. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised – Alfie Solomons thrives on unpredictability – and Tommy, it seems, thrives on Alfie. He is warm and tactile and self-assured, with a weight and presence that makes Tommy feel safe, grounded.Their shared moments, though infrequent, have become something to hold onto; an island of warmth in a sea of anger and animosity.

And Alfie is coming tonight, will be here in just a few hours – so Tommy can focus on that. Christ knowshe needs _something_ to focus on right now; his hands are shaking. He closes his eyes and thinks about how Alfie will arrive in a cascade of words, distract him with sparkling eyes and warm hands – drown out Tommy’s thoughts with his absurd rambling – then take him to bed and fuck him to sleep. And when Tommy wakes up, inevitably, far too soon, Alfie will hold him until the sun comes up. And god how he _needs_ to be held. He can’t actually remember the last time he felt any human contact beyond a handshake. Just another couple of hours to get through.

When the phone rings it startles him out of his thoughts. His first instinct is relief at hearing Alfie’s gruff voice down the line, strangely soothing despite the distinctly fucked-off tone. But then he starts ranting about some issue at the bakery, how fucking inept his staff are, how he might as well be dealing with school kids and how he won’t make it up to Warwickshire till tomorrow night, earliest. But Tommy isn’t listening any more. His ears have started ringing – there’s a hollow feeling in the middle of his chest and he’s suddenly wondering how on earth he’s going to get through another night on his own.

“Tommy, you still there, mate?” Alfie asks.

“Yeah.”

“So tomorrow night then, late. Or possibly Sunday morning if it all goes tits up. Alright?”

“S’fine,” Tommy sighs deeply.

“You alright there, love?”

“Eh? I said it’s fine,” he repeats, but his voice is cracking. He hangs up abruptly, _fuck_ he hopes Alfie didn’t hear that. He rests his head in his hands and takes a deep shaky breath, feels his eyes burn. He presses the heels of his hands into the sockets and physically holds in the tears. It’s just another 24 hours. 

–––

He has no idea how long he's been sitting there when he hears Frances knocking on the door, forcing him to compose himself. He takes a deep breath, blinks widely and tells her to come in.

“Dinner is ready, sir,” she says nervously.

“Not hungry,” he snaps without looking up, he needs more time for his eyes to clear. He stares at the paperwork on his desk, as though he is actually concentrating on something meaningful and not just trying to hold his head together. But instead of leaving, Frances hovers nervously in front of him, fiddling with her fingers. After a few seconds, he looks up, intensely irritated, both eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“It’s just that you haven’t eaten dinner in three days, Sir. And Charlie’s asking for you, he’d really like to have dinner with his daddy.”

After a very long pause he asks, “is that all, Frances?”

She knows she’s not going to get anywhere with him when he’s in this mood, so backs out of the study, closing the heavy door behind her.

Tommy sighs, pushes aside the image of Charlie eating alone with the maids. He pours a large whisky and knocks it back, trying to swallow his guilt down with the amber liquid. It doesn’t work, but he pores another anyway, larger this time. He wraps his arms around his sides, squeezes his hands under his armpits and tries to stop the trembling that is now worrying his limbs. It doesn't work. He clenches his teeth together, hard, trying to clamp down on the tremors that are threatening to overwhelm him, on the fluttering in his chest and in his throat. He feels his breath quicken, his shoulders rise and he picks up the empty whisky glass and hurls it at the window behind him with a fury he didn’t know he was holding in.

He’s vaguely satisfied when it smashes to smithereens, taking a window pane with it, letting in an icy blast of evening air that seems to match his mood. He turns his attention to the desk next, swiping everything off the surface with his forearms – books, papers, ornaments, ashtray, lamps – it's not enough to sate the unbridled mania taking him over. He hears himself roar as he lifts the entire wooden desk, flinging it over in one violent move, rage giving him a strength he hasn’t felt in days. He kicks the papers and ornaments that now cover the floor, rips the telephone from the wall and finally picks up his leather chair, hurling it at the bookcase so hard that he wrenches his shoulder. And then he's sated, for now. He staggers across the room to grab another bottle of whisky from the shelf, finds a glass too, and slumps down to the floor beside the bookcase, chest heaving from the exertion. When his breathing has steadied he opens the bottle and pours whisky hungrily down his throat, chasing the numbness it brings.

He can hear the maids outside, quick footsteps and anxious whispers, wondering what to do.

"Stay away, Frances," he bellows, before any of them have a chance to knock and thankfully, no one dares enter.

He sits there for a long time, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing as the sun drops lower in the sky, finally dropping beneath the horizon, leaving the room in gloomy shadow. He hears Charlie go off to bed, protesting loudly and calling for daddy, but it sounds far away, almost as if his head is underwater and everything outside this room is happening in a distant world, one he is no part of. He can’t deal with himself right now, let alone his son. Soon other sounds take over, maids going in and out of rooms, clearing and fetching and carrying, laying the table for a breakfast he won’t eat, readying the house for another wretched day. The house gradually falls silent around him and at last he is truly alone. He should go to bed, should at least lie down even if he can’t sleep. But instead he drains the rest of the bottle, then retrieves another from the shelf and continues drinking. Perhaps it will make him unconscious, blot out the hours, blot out the guilt, blot out how much he wants to feel whole again...wants to feel Alfie.

–––

It’s the early hours when he awakes, stiff and uncomfortable on the floor of his study. _Christ _he’s cold, what time is it? He scrabbles to sit up, limbs aching, head pounding.

He is still clutching a glass tumbler in his left hand, which he brings reflexively to his lips, draining the last few drops of whiskey. Then he just stares at the glass, at the chink of moonlight refracted in its surface from the window, and wonders how he's come to this, how he's lost everything and everyone...including his own fucking mind. It’s almost as if he's not here at all, as if he’s watching someone else’s hand, someone else’s fingers as they tense and squeeze around the glass until it cracks, the sides splintering into large, jagged shards. Even then he doesn’t stop, the fingers continue to curl, to clench a fist, flesh against broken crystal, until something hard – bone he supposes – forces him to stop.

He glares impassively at the blood dripping down his arm, fascinated at how the flow quickens until his shirt sleeve is bright red and a thin stream is running from his elbow into the carpet. He grips his forearm and closes his eyes, he wants to feel the pain… it’s real and it’s sharp and it reminds him that he is still alive and…fuck…this is not Ok. He can’t think straight. He leans back against the book case, just needs to rest for a minute…breathe in...breathe out...make his head work. He’s aware of a warm wetness seeping into the floor, into his trousers and he knows that he’s going to have to act. 

When he opens his eyes again he looks curiously at his own bloodied hand and tries to unfurl the fist, letting the remains of the tumbler fall to the ground. He pulls tentatively at the fragments, embedded in his palm, hissing at the pain. There's a lot of blood. He needs to clean it up, to find something to stem the flow. He looks around his office but sees nothing of use…his waistcoat will have to do. He undoes the buttons and shrugs it off, wrapping the woollen fabric around his hand.What he really needs is something more absorbent, a towel, which is going to mean making it to the bathroom. He crawls to his feet and stumbles towards the door, head spinning.

––– 

The staircase to the first floor has always been imposing, with its ornate carvings and gallery of paintings. In his current, inebriated state it looks like a bloody mountain before him. His hand is throbbing and he feels decidedly light-headed, whether from the booze or blood-loss he isn’t sure. He can’t risk walking, he’s too unsteady on his feet and when he closes his eyes there are spots swimming before him. So he sinks down onto his hands and knees and starts to crawl, like a fucking dog, grateful at least that no one is awake to see him. He’s aware that blood is seeping into the carpet on every step, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, he just needs to stay focused, get to the bathroom, get the towel, get into bed.If he can just lie down, warm up, wrap his hand, then everything will be alright. Or at least better.He wants to pull the blankets over his head and just hide from everyone and everything. Wait for the bleeding to stop. Or not. 

Crawling works out fine. There is a brief moment of relief when he makes it to the top stair, he lies there for a minute, two minutes maybe, still on all fours, forehead resting on the floor. C_hrist_ he feels dizzy. And why is it so cold? Are the windows open? He reaches for the newel post and hauls himself up with his good hand, keeping a firm grip on the wood to steady himself as he makes it to his feet. Grace’s eyes look down on him from the wall and he feels overwhelmingly tired and ashamed. He can’t look at her, casts his own eyes down and then has to rest his forehead on his outstretched arm, because his head is too heavy to hold. Too late he realises he has misjudged, his balance is off, his weight is tipping and his reactions are delayed — too slow to prevent the inevitable. The fall seems to happen in slow motion. He feels his head striking wood, a disorientating tumbling of arms and legs and neck and the wind being knocked completely out of him.

–––

The next thing he’s aware of is the agonising pain in his left shoulder and the hands that are shaking him. He wants them to stop. He hears a howling sound and wonders absent-mindedly if it’s foxes in the grounds, before realising that it’s coming from him. He blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, let me know what you liked, didn't like, want more of (want less of). I love to hear what you think!


	2. Stairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie gets an unexpected welcome at Arrow House.

When Alfie pulls his car up the enormous front drive at Arrow House the sky is just turning from black to grey. He’s knackered, his back aches and he wonders, not for the first time, why he has driven to the back of beyond, at this ungodly hour, just to make sure Thomas Shelby is alright. He must be losing his fucking mind. But then he tends to do that where Tommy’s concerned.

It’s been an infuriatingly long time since they’ve been able to meet, which is almost entirely down to Tommy — negotiating the release of his relatives has understandably been his priority for weeks now — and Alfie doesn’t begrudge it; he knows how important family is to Tommy. But he’s missed the man. So yeah, here he is.   
  
It’s not like Alfie hasn’t been busy himself anyway; the many strands of his own business do not run themselves. This afternoon was a case in point actually; a little roughing up had turned into a lot of cleaning up and two bodies to be disposed of if we're getting into specifics (because some people in his employ apparently don’t understand the meaning of the word _restraint, _for which there is a time and a place). Unfortunately, given the rather particular status of the victims, the aftermath had required Alfie’s very personal oversight, which was unavoidable but just abominable timing all round. Because Alfie has been looking forward to his trip up to see Tommy for days. He might be a terrifyingly irrational, foul-tempered gangster to most, but to those he cares about he is a different man. And there is no one he cares about more than Tommy.  
  
Not that Tommy makes it easy. He is evasive and uncommunicative at the best of times, sullen and hostile at the worst. And whilst Alfie is good at reading people; prides himself on it, Tommy is always a bit of an enigma, infuriatingly good at keeping his emotions hidden. Not always entirely under control, Alfie has come to realise, but definitely under wraps. He had assumed, not unsurprisingly, that Tommy would be relieved, even happy right now, having saved his entire fucking family from the noose. Which is what made last night’s phone call so unnerving. Maybe Alfie’s reading too much into this, he really hopes he is, but Tommy sounded…off. Broken he almost thinks, but that's a bit melodramatic innit? Although that word definitely crossed his mind.  
  
Alfie has glimpsed beneath Tommy's tough exterior more than once now, has seen what lies beneath the clipped words, the cold stares, the expensive suits that he wears like armour. And frankly he’s sick of the fucking pretence of it all. Maybe it’s because he’s had three hours on his own in the car to think about this…but Alfie can admit it…he is worried. He tried to call Tommy back last night, once he'd dealt with the worst of the mess, but he'd found the line dead, as if Tommy didn’t want to talk (which is a sure sign that he _should_ in Alfie’s book). And that’s why he’s driven half the night to end up here, outside this ridiculous castle Tommy calls home, from where he seems to believe he can take on the entire world alone.  
  
The birds are just starting to chirp in the trees as Alfie stoops to get out of his car, which is all he bloody needs. What he really wants is for the housekeeper to let him slip into a bedroom and get an hour’s kip before Tommy wakes up, no doubt far too bloody early as usual. Sure they’re going to ask questions, wonder why a business associate is turning up at half four in the bleeding morning, but Alfie couldn’t really give a fuck. And if Tommy cares, then that’s just tough. He shouldn’t scare the life out of Alfie by hanging up on him like that.  
  
These thoughts are quickly abandoned as he reaches the front steps, because it’s clear that something is very amiss in Tommy’s house. A window is smashed, the front door is flapping wide open, and there are far too many lights on for this hour. Come to think of it, there's a bloody horse tied up by the front door as well. What the _fuck_ is going on?

He feels his adrenaline surge as he steps foot inside, poking his head into Tommy’s study on the left, which looks like a fucking tornado has swept through it, furniture and paperwork strewn across the entire room and that grand mahogany desk lying on its side. More worrying yet, there is a not-insignificant trail of blood on the carpet, leading out of the room and down the hall. Shit. He follows it, heading down the corridor towards some sort of commotion in the heart of the house. There are hushed voices, and strange noises. Bloody ‘ell, what is that noise? Sounds like a wounded fucking dog.   
  
As he reaches the inner hallway he sees a maid and one of Tommy’s gypsy mates (Johnny is it?) crouched around a small, shivering figure on the stone floor at the bottom of the giant staircase. Fucking hell.  
  
“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, dropping his cane on the floor with a loud clatter as he realises, with somewhat familiar gloom, that the shivering form is Tommy. And that wounded noise? Also Tommy. He kneels down next to the crumpled body, placing a hand on his head, and glares fiercely at the timid looking maid before hissing, “how long’s he been ‘ere? He’s fuckin’ freezing.”  
  
“I heard the crash and found him like this, sir, must have fallen down the stairs. Maybe half an hour ago,” she explains. “I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t move him so I ran down to the river and fetched Johnny here.”   
  
“And you just left ‘im here, shivering, on his own?” Alfie grunts. Tommy's only wearing his shirt and trousers; no waistcoat, no jacket, one sleeve is soaked bright red with blood and it's cold in this house. Colder still on this floor. Alfie shrugs himself out of his overcoat and lays it over Tommy.  
  
“There’s no one else here sir, he’s fired all the men. I had to leave Mary here with the baby, he woke up with all the noise.”  
  
“Frances here came to fetch me, because she knows Tommy trusts me,” says Johnny, defensively, no doubt wondering what the hell Alfie Solomons is doing in Warwickshire anyway. “We're kin,” he adds pointedly.  
  
Alfie doesn't acknowledge that, his attention focused firmly on Tommy now. He lifts his eyelids one at a time, checking the pupils, trying to assess whether he’s conscious. Not really it seems, at least not enough to speak or react to Alfie's presence, although clearly enough to register pain judging by that god-awful whining noise he’s making.  
  
He looks like he's lost a fair amount of blood too, there is a dark slick of red across the floors and up the stairs, not to mention the amount on his clothes.  
  
“He’s hit his head,” Johnny states, somewhat obviously.   
  
“Well I can fucking see that, can’t I, mate?” Alfie yells, “The massive bruise on the side of ‘is head is something of a give away.” It’s the same side as the head injury the priest gave him Alfie notes gloomily. The one he definitely hasn’t fully recovered from, despite what he might claim.  
  
“…and dislocated his shoulder by the looks of things,” Johnny continues, apparently unperturbed by Alfie's gruffness. He gestures towards Tommy’s left arm which is indeed sticking out at a very unnatural angle. At least he thinks it is. It's quite difficult to tell because Frances has Tommy's left hand between her two and is pressing a very bloody towel to it, whilst holding it in the air.  
  
“Get out of the fucking way,” Alfie bellows, taking the towel from Frances. He lifts it and sucks air through his teeth as he examines the bloody mess underneath. There are several lacerations, one of which starts pumping a slow, thick stream of blood the second the pressure is lifted. How on earth did he do that? He's not too sure he wants to know right now, but his stomach sinks. It needs stitching, a lot of stitching by the looks of things. Alfie presses the cloth back over it, squeezing hard to stem the flow. He can feel his jaw clenching, a hot, thick feeling invading his chest and spreading to his shoulders. It's fear, probably, or anger, sometimes Alfie finds it hard to tell the difference. He feels his composure cracking.  
  
“How in god’s name did this happen?” he booms. “Why the fuck wasn’t anyone looking after him?" He’s glaring dangerously, between Johnny and Frances, he’s furious with them, irrationally angry. He's angry with himself too, for not being here sooner, for not reading Tommy better.  
  
He can feel his ire rising and he is trying, honest to god trying, to keep it in check. He speaks through gritted teeth, spitting the words out slowly, carefully,  
"What is the point, right, of living in a goddam fucking _castle_ full of goddam fucking _staff_ and having goddam fucking _kin_ if no one’s bloody well looking out for him?”

He' shaking and his eyes are blazing and it's not really surprising that no one dares answer. He's well aware that Johnny and Frances are probably wondering what business it is of Alfie Solomons' anyway. But quite frankly that is the least of his worries. If he’d just left everything to Olly earlier then they would be upstairs right now, safely tucked up in bed, and he wouldn’t be staring at Tommy sweating and shaking in a pool of blood at the bottom of his own grand fucking staircase.  
  
He takes a deep breath and calms himself, focuses on Tommy rather than his idiot staff and friends. He strokes Tommy’s hair, noting the sheen of cold sweat. “Alright Tom, we’re gonna sort this out, make you more comfortable,” he says. “Gone and dislocated your shoulder, you silly boy.” He's not sure whether Tommy can hear him, he certainly doesn't get a response.   
  
“I know the hand's bad, but we need to deal with this shoulder,” Johnny says gently, rousing Alfie from his thoughts. “We can’t really move ‘im like this.”  
  
“And what makes you the fuckin’ expert?” Alfie growls, somewhat ungraciously.   
  
“Seen plenty of falls from horses," says Johnny, “the longer we leave it the more nerve damage'll be done…”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfie grunts, begrudgingly, weighing up the situation. This is not how he expected his morning to pan out…not at _all_. But that bloody tinker’s got a point, something’s gonna have to be done. They’re miles from anywhere, and they can’t just leave Tommy in this much pain. He looks at his watch, it’s nearly 5am, Charlie’ll be up soon, they need to get Tommy moved, can't have the kid seeing him like this. Since when did he start worrying about children for fucks sake!?   
  
“Go and sit with Charlie,” he barks at Frances. “Or get someone else to sit with ‘im. Last thing we need is him waking up and finding his dad in this sorry state.” She nods, and Alfie watches as she and Johnny give each other a strange sideways look, as if to say _who put him in charge_? He ignores them.  
  
“This ain’t gonna be pleasant," Alfie continues. "If Charlie hears the screams, distract him. Tell ‘im it’s just the foxes. Or stags. Or whatever wild animals you have on this godforsaken estate. Tell him there’s a pack of wolves putting on a fucking musical if you like, but it's not his dad. Alright?” Frances nods again, looking in equal parts terrified and relieved to be heading back upstairs and away from this sorry scene.  
  
Johnny glares at Alfie for a moment, like he's considering asking a question, but then thinks better of it. Clearly he has some sense then. “Right, just you and me, mate,” Alfie says. “‘How are we gonna do this?”  
  
“Well you hold onto him, I’ll pull his arm back into place,” Johnny explains, as if this were really _very_ simple.   
  
“Just like that hmm? You sure you know what you’re doing?” Alfie asks.  
  
“Sure it’’ll be fine,” says Johnny confidently. “By the smell of ‘im he’s ‘ad enough whisky to knock most of us out for a week, eh? Just hope he doesn’t put up a fight.”  
  
“Does he look like he’s in any state to put up a fucking fight?” Alfie growls; this man is seriously getting under his skin, but he can’t afford to lose it now so he swallows it down and just says, “help me shift him.”   
  
Alfie sits himself on the floor and, with Johnny's help, hauls Tommy’s upper body into his lap. No wonder he’s freezing, this floor is stone fucking cold. Alfie laces his fingers together over Tommy’s chest, locking him in position. He has to let go of the bloodied hand, which lies limp and oozing on the floor. There's nothing he can do about that, other than work fast, it's a question of prioities and they need to focus on stopping the pain so that they can move him. Tommy struggles feebly against the jostling but lays still in Alfie's lap after less than a minute - his breathing very shallow and his brow deeply furrowed. Alfie has an overwhelming urge to bend down and kiss him, to calm him. He doesn’t, Johnny Dogs might just freak out at that.  
  
Johnny has moved to Tommy’s left side and is taking a knife to his shirt sleeve, ripping away the fabric to reveal the injured shoulder. Alfie can see the bruising, already dark and angry, and the lopsided way the bone is positioned, very obviously not seated in its socket. Tommy's eyes open and roll as Johnny removes the unwanted fabric somewhat wrecklessly. “‘For fucks sake be careful,” Alfie shouts.   
  
Johnny sits back on his heels and mutters something in a language Alfie can’t understand, before seeming to garner his courage. He grabs Tommy’s upper arm firmly between both hands, trying to avoid the bloodied hand at the end of it, which is definitely not making things any easier. “Alright. You got him?” he asks Alfie, looking far more nervous than Alfie would like at this very moment in time.   
  
"I got him," Alfie nods, affirmative, without taking his eyes off Tommy’s pained expression.  
  
“3, 2, 1,” Johnny mutters, before pulling Tommy’s arm out to the side and upwards. Tommy roars in Alfie’s lap, like he’s suddenly come back to life. His body goes rigid and his head digs painfully into Alfie’s stomach but Alfie manages to hold him still. Fucking _fucking_ hell. Tommy is taking great gasping breaths, his sprawled legs kicking out at nothing on the floor.  
  
“Ah feck, that’s not done it,” Johnny states shaking his head impassively. He sounds totally detached and pragmatic, like he’s doing a jigsaw puzzle and has just found that the piece in his hand doesn’t fit. It is doing Alfie’s head in. “Ready to go again?” Johnny asks.  
  
“No he is not fucking ready to go again,” Alfie barks back, “give him a minute for fucks sake.” This time he does lean down to Tommy’s sweat-soaked forehead, he strokes his hand over it gently, moving his hair out of his eyes - fuck Johnny. It's not a kiss but it is obviously tender. He wants to say something comforting but is totally at a loss for words. Nothing is going to help, they just need to get this done. So he just holds Tommy and waits for his breathing to settle. After a couple of minutes’ respite, Alfie nods at Johnny to try again, tightening his grip around Tommy’s chest. Johnny lifts the upper arm once again, rotating up and back this time to try and locate the ball joint. There is no satisfying clunk, just a desperate sounding low groan that goes on long after Johnny has dropped the arm. It settles into gasps.  
  
“Ah fur fucks sake, Tommy” Johnny laments, “trust you not to make this easy fur me, eh? Why d'ya always have to be such a difficult bastard.”  
  
Alfie is struggling to keep his composure; Tommy is in agony and this fucking tinker is treating it like a game? Engaging in banter? Any more and he might just take Johnny’s knife and stick it through his eye. It’s not like Alfie’s exactly known for keeping his temper under control, right? Lucky for Johnny that just now his hands are otherwise engaged holding Tommy’s. He settles for explaining to Johnny, carefully and in no uncertain words, exactly how slowly he will skin him if he fucks it up again.   
  
Johnny looks at Alfie as if he's a madman (he really doesn't know the half of it) as he grabs Tommy’s arm for the third time, planting one foot on the floor, the other against Tommy’s side for leverage. He pauses, takes a deep breath and then pulls Tommy’s arm out to the side, as hard as he can, and then up above his head. This time, through a choked cry, they hear the crunch of gristle and bone popping back into place. Thank fuck. Tommy snaps forwards on reflex, spewing the contents of his stomach silently across Alfie’s coat as he does so. Nothing but fucking whisky Alfie notes dismally.   
  
“It’s done, Tommy, it’s done. S’all over,” he murmurs. “You’ve ‘ad worse mate, you’ve ‘ad worse,” he adds, clamping Tommy's arm to his side and resuming the pressure on his hand wound. He feels exhausted at just having witnessed the ordeal.  
  
When he looks over to Johnny once more the man has a large grin on his face and slaps Tommy's thigh.  
“Never lost the fucking touch eh!” he exclaims proudly. He blows air out through his lips before clapping his hands together, grinning and sounding far too delighted with himself. Yeah, Alfie’ll deal with him later.  
  
"You quite finished celebrating, mate? 'Cause if it ain't too much trouble, you might wanna help me actually get him off this stone cold fucking floor and into something more comfortable, like, oh I dunno - a fuckin' bed?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear, I couldn't help it. Hands up for more hurt Tommy? More angst? Let me know what you thoughts...pretty please!


	3. Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tommy wakes up to some surprises...

When Tommy wakes, he has no idea of where he is or what has happened to him. He couldn't tell you the time of day or the day of the week or whether he even fucking cares. The only thing he knows for sure is that it feels like a rat is gnawing through his shoulder bone...maybe several rats...hungry ones. The ache comes in dull, insistent waves that ebb and flow, making him feel irritable and nauseous. He lies very still, breathing shallowly, fearful of igniting any more pain. His right temple throbs too, come to think of it, which is not particularly unusual in itself, just feels unnecessary on top of the shoulder pain. 

He tries to focus on remembering what happened – because that would be a good fucking start– but it's difficult to think when his head feels stuffed with wool. There was whiskey involved, he knows that – too much whiskey as usual – he can still taste it on his tongue and smell it on his clothes. Or maybe it's not his clothes...is he even wearing any? Maybe it's on his skin, seeping out of his pores. He'll check what he's wearing in a minute...just needs to fill in the gaps first. There was definitely blood too, a lot of blood, although for the life of him he can’t think why or where it was coming from. And then there were the stairs...he does remember that bit...remembers crawling up them, remembers falling, with Grace watching him. _Fuck_.

Which of the maids found him then? Because someone must have. How did they get him into bed? He’s clearly in a bed, most likely his own he guesses, he can feel himself propped up on more pillows than he knew he possessed.He doesn’t dare open his eyes, doesn’t want to face the staff and their pitying looks. Certainly not before he’s composed himself a bit, worked out what's wrong. His left hand is throbbing now, a deep, sharp pain that he becomes more aware of when the gnawing in his shoulder wanes for a moment. He tries to move his fingers, to assess the damage, but finds his whole arm and hand is bandaged uncomfortably, held against his chest so tight he feels like he's in a straitjacket. The movement only causes a shooting pain in the palm of his hand and he flinches sharply, swallowing down the sudden urge to vomit.

There’s a movement next to him at that, and he’s aware for the first time that someone else is in the room. Come to think of it, someone is holding his right hand, the uninjured one. It feels warm, unlike the rest of him. He hadn’t noticed that at first, distracted by the pain on his other side. But who? It can’t be a maid. He fucking _hopes_ it’s not a maid...the thought of Mary or Frances with their hand tucked in his is absolutely mortifying. Shit, he's going to have to open his eyes now, he needs to know.

His eyelids feel like lead curtains, but he lifts them the tiniest fraction, just enough to make out the room...which is his bedroom afterall. There's someone sitting next to him, he can make out the dark shape, but without turning his head he can't tell who it is. He doesn't want to turn his head, doesn't want to let whoever it is know he's conscious. In the end he doesn't need to, because a very familiar voice breaks the silence.

"Well, well, well look who's back in the land of the living?" Fucking hell ...fucking, _fucking_ hell. Alfie is sitting in a chair next to the bed, looking grim and exhausted. Tommy's heart jumps in his chest, a brief flip of delight before his brain intervenes and shame settles over him like a damp, heavy fog.

"Well, I say living...might be jumping to conclusions there...you look altogether fucked, mate. And not in the good sense."

_Jesus Christ when did Alfie get here? How much did he see? What does he know?_ _More than Tommy at this point in all likelihood, which wouldn't be difficult_. He feels unclean - damp with sweat, cold, light-headed – a fucking mess. 

“Hmm. I was not expecting _that_ little welcoming party at 4.30 this morning sweetheart, I can tell you,” Alfie goes on. Because of course he is going to talk, he knows Tommy's a captive audience.

“No…you see not _unreasonably_, after my long fucking middle-of-the-night-drive, I was expecting to arrive here, creep into one of your many grand bedrooms and get meself some much-needed kip before the morning. Be ‘ere when you woke up I thought. But it seems you had other ideas, eh?” 

_He sounds calm,_ Tommy thinks, possibly a bit angry, but mostly calm.

“Have I ever told you that I do not fucking _like_ surprises, Tommy?” Alfie pauses. “Especially not the sort that involve _you_ and blood and bones protruding at unfeasible fucking angles?”

_Ok, maybe not entirely calm._

“I knew you sounded bad on the phone mate,” he starts. He’s speaking very slowly, very precisely, like he wants Tommy to really listen. Not that he has any choice at this point in time, but still, he can tell what Alfie’s doing. “That’s why _I_, like a fucking _idiot_, got in my car at 1 o’clock this morning to drive to the back-of-beyond, innit?” The volume is rising, “Just how much did you fucking _drink_?”

_Tommy swallows hard, he honestly has no idea and he feels too fragile to even open his eyes again, let alone deal with Alfie’s temper._

“Cause judging by the state of your office, mate, I’d say it was at least two bottles of whisky, maybe three. Hmmm?"

_Shit, the office, he vaguely recalls that..._

"Presumably on an empty stomach, right? Because eating…actually _eating food…_ is just too fucking _mundane_ for the great Thomas Shelby innit?"

_Shit, he’s angry. _

"Too corporeal__."__

_Definitely angry._

“We need to talk about your fucking coping mechanisms, mate. Your total fuckin' disregard for the laws of biology. Man cannot live on whiskey and bitterness alone – fuckin’ corrosive innit?”

_It’s corrosive alright, feels like his entire insides have been hollowed out. _

He can hear the fire in Alfie’s voice now…that distinctive timbre that sounds smooth to the uninitiated, but generally precedes him absolutely losing it.

"Ever consider taking up chess? Hmm? Reading a book? Or, I dunno, going for a fucking walk every once in a while? Instead of drinking yourself stupid of an evening?"

Tommy swallows, just waiting for it.

“You ever considered _telling_ someone what’s going on in that fucked up head of yours occasionally? Some of us, right, some of us might actually _care_.”

And with some impulse that Tommy can’t control, he actually laughs at that, well, snorts air from his nostrils and lets the corner of his mouth turn up at least. Which is probably not the best idea he’s ever had given Alfie’s current mood. But honestly, it's not like he's fully in control of anything here. And if Alfie thinks _anyone_ cares about him then he’s quite obviously more insane than Tommy thought. Even his entire fucking _family_ hates him.

“Oh, so you think this is funny now, do you?” Alfie yells, chair scraping loudly across the floor as he shoves it backwards to stand up. He drops Tommy’s hand unceremoniously.

“Fuckin’ hilarious mate – you just work and drink yourself into oblivion and to hell with the rest of us. Because the great Thomas Shelby does whatever the fuck he wants right? King of his fucking castle?”

“No one cares Alfie,” Tommy rasps, slowly forcing his eyes open, looking at him, “I’m the fucking devil incarnate, haven’t you heard?”

Alfie ignores the comment, scratching at his beard as if deep in thought for a moment, before continuing, “your son was in the house. Charlie. Remember him? He was in the house, whilst you were drinking yourself to oblivion. Smashing up your office and slitting your wrists on the carnage.”

Alfie picks up his cane and backs away from the bed, as if he's trying to get a good look, creating enough distance to assess Tommy in full. He points the tip of his cane at Tommy’s face, jabbing for emphasis. “Now I might not have any kids mate, but I know enough to _know, _to just fuckin' _know_ that this…this ain't right.”

He traces his cane down the length of Tommy's body, waving it over him whilst dragging his eyes from the top of his head right down to his toes, and back again. It no doubt makes for a sorry sight.

“This right here…yeah…is not parenting. This... right here...is _Not_. _Fucking_. _On_.” He spits out the last three words staccato, glaring at Tommy who only stares fiercely back. Because what is there to say? 

Tommy clenches his eyes shut once more, like a child hoping to block out the words, block out Alfie’s anger. Because there’s the knife to his stomach. Not only is his head undoubtedly fucked up, he’s a terrible father as well. And it's not like he doesn't already _know_ that fact, but hearing anyone say it out loud, hearing _Alfie_ say it out loud, well, it somehow makes it more real.

“I had to scrape you off the floor this morning, and I do mean literally, so that _your son_ wouldn’t stumble out of bed and find his father like that. Broken. At the bottom of the stairs. A fucking _hopeless_ mess,” Alfie fumes. He moves closer once more, looms over Tommy, placing one hand on the pillow next to his head. He leans down so low that Tommy can feel his breath on his face, feel the barely contained fury causing Alfie’s arm to vibrate just slightly beside him. And the thing is, it's clearly meant to be intimidating. Hell, it _is_ intimidating... Alfie is a fearsome presence when he wants to be and Tommy does not want to see the look in his eyes. 

“The least you can do is fucking_ look at me _when I’m talking to you!” Alfie shouts.

Tommy drags his eyelids open again to meet Alfie’s furious glare, because he might feel like death, but he doesn't shy away from eye contact…even now... when he deserves every painful word. He wants desperately to tell Alfie that he’s sorry, he’s pathetic, he _needs_ him. But he can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t bring himself to say the words. Instead he holds the stare for an uncomfortably long time, glaring back obstinately as Alfie’s eyes flick from one of his pupils to the other and back again, boring into him, searching, _reading_ him.

Well if he's hoping to find anything good in there he's going to be sorely disappointed. When Tommy does finally open his mouth, it’s his old friend, defiance that spits back Alfie’s words. “If I’m so _hopeless, _eh? So_ fucked up, _then why don’t you just _Fuck. Off._ Eh? _Leave_. Go back to fucking _London_!”

Alfie lets out a mirthless chuckle and stands up, throwing his hands in the air at that. “And there we go again, eh Tommy? Default fucking reaction. Push everyone away.” He hovers by the bed for a moment before taking his cane, turning his back and striding straight out of the bedroom door, slamming it so loudly behind him that it makes Tommy jump, despite the fact that he can see it coming.

And then Tommy is on his own again, stuck with his thoughts. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the way his right hand is tingling, where Alfie was holding it only moments ago, or maybe that’s just in his head. Alfie has gone. He's pushed him away with his fucked up behaviour and his stupid words. At least that keeps things simple. Nothing and no one to worry about any more. Just himself. And Charlie.

He listens as Alfie flees down the stairs, cane tapping. He listens to the sound of a car door opening outside. He hears the engine starting, the spin of tyres on gravel and the roar of acceleration as Alfie departs, fading slowly as the distance grows. Pretty soon he is left with the silence, heavy and oppressive in his dark room, in his dark head. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the pain — the pain in his hand, the pain in his shoulder, the ache in his back — until it blots out the pain in his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we know by now that Alfie is no mild-mannered push-over is he? And Tommy has really gone and done it. Again. Sooo... let me know your thoughts!


	4. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tommy mostly listens. Not that he has much choice.

Tommy's not sure how long he's been lying there when there is a quiet knock at the door. "Come in," he says, voice raspy from lack of use.

It's Frances, bringing water and making concerned enquiries as to how he's feeling. Shameful is the honest answer, although what he barks back at her is far less polite. She is on her way out of the room again when he realises that he is going to have to ask some questions, since his own brain is steadfastly failing to provide any answers and there really isn't anyone else left. 

"Frances, what happened last night?" She looks surprised, and not a little nervous as she turns round to answer him.

"Well sir, you drank quite a lot. And fell down the stairs. We heard the noise and found you. In the hall."

"We?" he asks, clearing his throat loudly. 

"Mary and I. But Mary had to go and settle Charles – the commotion woke him up."

"Did he...?"

"No sir, he didn't see anything. Then I went to fetch Johnny Dogs, I didn't know what else to do, you were in... quite a way."

Good old Frances, thank god she went for Johnny, not an ambulance.

"And when did Al...Mr Solomons turn up?" he asks, correcting himself quickly. 

"Shortly after Johnny sir. He was none too pleased, got rather cross with everyone. But he helped Johnny put your shoulder back."

_Fuck_...no wonder he's finally buggered off.

"And there was some sort of commotion earlier, sir. In your office. Broken glass...your hand..." she's mumbling, embarrassed it seems.

"Spit it out Frances, I can't remember a damn thing and I'd rather hear it from you."

"Well you rather turned your office upside down, sir." He does remember that now, taking his temper out on the furniture. "And you cut yourself pretty badly. There was a broken glass and a broken window, but that's all I know, sir. There's a lot of blood on the floor in there." Right. There's not a lot he can say to that. What a pathetic mess.

"Mr Solomons has just left sir, seemed to be in quite the hurry. Were you expecting him this morning?" she asks.

"Thank you, Frances, that's all," Tommy replies, signalling the end of the conversation.

\-----

It's maybe fifteen minutes later that he hears wheels on the gravel outside. Slower this time. He waits, confident the staff will dismiss any visitors, but then hears footsteps on the stairs and Frances talking quietly. This he does not need...

"Frances!" he yells, with as much energy as he can muster, "whoever it is, tell 'em to fuck off!"

But no sooner have his words echoed down the hall than there is a knock at the bedroom door and Frances is standing there, "I'm sorry sir, it's the doctor." He stands on the threshold, leather bag in hand, with a rather condescending look on on his face. God knows what Frances has told him. Tommy just closes his eyes and sighs.

"I don't need a doctor, Frances. Johnny's already patched me up."

"But sir, your hand...it's still bleeding," Frances stutters, "I really think the doctor should take a look."

He knows she's right but it doesn't make him feel any more compliant, he just wants to be left alone right now to wallow. And smoke. Maybe try to sleep a little.

"Frances," he starts, in what is clearly a warning tone, "leave me alone."

"But sir..." 

"I'm not seeing any _fucking_ doctor!" he roars. 

It's an unexpectedly ferocious outburst, given the state he's in, and the room is briefly stunned into silence. 

Until a very stern voice, from somewhere out in the hallway says, "oh but you _are_, sweetie," and out of nowhere, or so it seems to Tommy, Alfie is marching into the room like he owns the place, gesturing both the doctor and Frances out of the way.

"You most definitely fuckin' are," he states coldly.

_Fucking hell. What the absolute fuck? He can't keep up with this. _

"Fuck off!" Tommy spits, furious now because the man only stormed out 15 minutes ago. How dare he come waltzing back in, calling him sweetie in front of... well ... _everyone_, and acting like he has some sort of right to tell Tommy what the fuck to do in his own house. 

“Well I could fuck off Tommy, leave you to rot away by yourself in your big fucking castle," Alfie growls, before turning to address the maid over his shoulder in a far milder tone, "would you mind giving us a minute, love?"

Frances looks over towards the bed, seeking Tommy's instruction.

"Unless of course you'd rather they stay for this, Thomas..." Alfie continues, eyebrows raised in a silent threat.

"It's fine, Frances," Tommy quickly interjects, nodding at her to go before Alfie can say anything else incriminating. He almost wishes she wouldn't...he could do with some moral support...which is pathetic, isnt it? 

"Just give us five, eh?" Alfie says and Frances retreats, looking thoroughly bemused, taking the doctor with her.

___

Alfie enters the room fully now, closing the door behind him. He stands at the foot of the bed, looking out of the large window behind Tommy, leaning on his cane with both hands.

"Yeah, I could fuck off alright. Tried to in fact. Earlier. And really, that’d be the easy thing to do. The _sane_ thing to do. But then again, I'm not really known for my sanity. And unfortunately I’ve got this problem, yeah? Big fucking problem as it turns out. You see,” he drops his gaze to look at Tommy, “it seems that I have been…cursed. _Cursed_,” he repeats with emphasis. “Can you fucking believe it? I mean I probably deserve it, my punishment for the many the vile and despicable things I have done in my life. Payback or something, innit?”

Tommy waits to see where the fuck this is going, because when Alfie starts rambling, it’s always going somewhere. He's using that slow, deliberately nonchalant voice that implies he doesn't really care, but in fact indicates that he expects to be listened to very carefully...very carefully indeed. 

“And d’you wanna know what _form_ this particular curse has taken, Thomas?"

"Not really, but I have a feeling you're gonna tell me anyway," Tommy grumbles.

"Well, here’s the thing," Alfie continues, entirely unperturbed, as expected. "I have been cursed with caring far too _fucking_ much for a brilliant gypsy from the godforsaken city of Birmingham.” He pauses, checking Tommy's with him, as though he is some achingly slow pupil who might not be keeping up.

“And I have glimpsed wonders in his ethereal blue eyes that no man of my standing deserves to have seen. I have been allowed to hold him and kiss him and_ fuck him _in my arms until the rest of the world is like a dreary fucking figment of someone’s very tedious imagination – utterly _meaningless_ and inconsequential in comparison.” Alfie sighs deeply and pauses, looking out of the window as though he has just noticed the answers to all life’s questions lying in the fields beyond.

“But, this being a curse an’all, there’s a rub. Of course there is. You see this _gypsy.._,” he gestures towards Tommy with a wave of his hand, in case he hadn't already realised Alfie's talking about him. (I mean seriously, how patronising can the man be?) “...he’s actually broken. On the inside. Occasionally on the outside, but mainly, the inside. Damaged you might say. Only it's not the sort of damage that you notice immediately, no, because you see he’s very good at acting like he is made of _granite_, that he is impenetrable and indestructible. But it is an _illusion_.” He draws out the last word and waves his arm with a flourish as if to emphasise his point. "And I, the cursed fucking Jew, have _seen_ that it is an illusion and am now condemned to look after him and save him from those that would do him harm – of which there are many –in order to preserve what little is left of my own sanity."

He bangs his cane on the floor, making a satisfied grunting sound as though he has arrived at some grand and important conclusion. "So you see, I can’t leave. In fact, considering that you are your own _worst_ enemy, I don’t think I can ever fucking leave again. You can’t be trusted, mate.”

Alfie pauses then and strokes his beard, looking for all the world as though his own words have just revealed a truth to him, of which he was hitherto unaware. Which maybe they have, who knows? He walks around the bed, heading for the window behind Tommy. 

“And _curses_ right, well they’re fucking powerful things, aren’t they? You of all people should know that. And it would seem that I am completely fucking defenceless against it. Must be a gypsy thing. So yeah… it looks like you’re stuck with me, mate.”

Tommy swallows, unsure what to make of this rather unexpected speech, because he was fucking _angry_ a few minutes ago, riled and indignant and exasperated. And he knew what to do with that. It was familiar. Safe. But this? How does he deal with _this_? The way Alfie talks and rambles and makes out like he's in some way special...it's just so infuriating...and irritating...yet _comforting_. He pinches the bridge of his nose and is unable to stop one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“A curse?” he mumbles. 

“Yeah, a curse,” Alfie repeats, like this is the most serious and obvious thing he has ever said in his life.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You are gonna stay right here until the doctor has seen you.”

“I don’t need a doc..,” Tommy starts 

“…until the doctor has seen you,” Alfie says more forcefully, drowning out any argument. “He is waiting downstairs. I passed him in his big fuckin' car when I left before. Didn't like the look of 'im to be honest...partly why I came back . Hmmm. Anyway, he is gonna check your head, stitch up the godawful mess that is your hand and strap your shoulder so that it actually fucking stays put. Johnny Dogs might be good with horses love, but he is never laying a fucking hand on you again, I swear.”

Tommy sighs...the last thing he wants is some doctor fucking about with him, but he supposes it's inevitable now. Alfie is not going to take no for an answer.

“Then I am gonna climb very carefully into this rather large bed of yours, and I am going to go to sleep, looking at your beautiful, bruised face. And later this afternoon, when we’ve both had some rest, we are gonna talk. About everything.”

Tommy takes a shaky breath. He feels weak, ashamed and like he would like to disappear into a black whole. But he is also relieved, even while the idea of talking about any of this sounds hideous. Then he can’t think about it anymore because there’s a wave of pain approaching and it’s taking every ounce of his energy just to ride it out. It’s gnawing through his shoulder, but also his back, his side, making him feel sick again. Alfie notices the shift in his demeanor and comes to sit on the bed next to him, strokes his hair. “You in pain love?” he asks, all traces of his former anger seemingly evaporated. Tommy just nods.

___

It’s nearly midday by the time the doctor has left and Alfie keeps his promise – sliding into bed next to Tommy, who’s very quiet, eyes closed, brow deeply furrowed. He doesn't exactly look comfortable, but he looks a darn site more relaxed than he was an hour ago when the good doctor was manhandling him into fresh bandages and putting 30 stitches in his hand. He's stopped shaking at any rate. By some miracle he seems to have missed any major tendons, but they're still going to have to wait and see whether the artery holds. Thank God it was his hand, not his wrist...that would have been a different story.

Alfie yawns widely, choosing not to pursue that particular line of thought at this juncture. He is exhausted, he’s been up all night afterall. Thank god he came back. It only took him half the length of the drive to realise that he couldn't leave Tommy alone, didn't trust these people to look after the idiot. Had to drive around for a few minutes to calm the fuck down of course, but one look at that doctor's face through his car windscreen had sealed the deal and had him headed back to Arrow House faster than a hunted fox. Just as well, Tommy would likely have refused all treatment left to his own devices.

Right now he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms round Tommy and hug him close, but the disastrous creature is so covered in bandages he can’t even do that.

Apparently the shoulder pain will last at least a couple of weeks and can be pretty intense; the doctor has left morphine, which so far Tommy has refused. His upper arm is tightly bandaged down to the elbow and then strapped across his chest, so that the joint won't move. The injured hand is protected by a splint and a sling, which keeps his left hand pulled up to his right shoulder. What with that, plus the flourishing bruise across Tommy’s right temple and cheekbone; well, he looks a sorry state.

Alfie is more worried about the concussion, which given the cracked skull a few months ago is far from ideal. The doctor was very clear that Tommy’s not to be left alone for the next few days, which is definitely not a problem; Alfie doesn’t think he can bring himself to ever leave Tommy alone again. Clearly that’s going to be a problem for business but he’ll just have to work out the details. 

He shuffles closer to the still figure in bed and tentatively rests his arm across the slim hips. When Tommy doesn’t flinch he dares to relax, allowing the weight of his arm to press more firmly across the protruding bones. He wonders sleepily when Tommy last ate anything and makes a mental note to ask Frances later. Why does he have to be so fucking self-destructive? The less-than-ideal family situation is clearly getting to him more than he’ll admit, they'll have to talk about that. Alfie closes his eyes and feels his body relax, a welcome heavy feeling enveloping him. For now, Tommy is safe and calm and Alfie really needs some sleep.

He’s just dozing off when there is a moan beside him. His eyes snap open, his senses on high alert, despite the tiredness. He watches Tommy's jaw clench tightly, his arm twitch, clearly in pain again and raises his head to ask, “you alright, love?” Tommy nods twice, without opening his eyes and without unknitting his brow. Clearly not alright then. 

“Why don’t you take the morphine? Help you sleep?” Alfie asks.

He’s met with a small but decisive shake of the head. Strange he won't take it, but he knows not to push, so he just watches instead – strokes his thumb over Tommy’s hipbone and waits for the tension to subside – which it does after a few minutes. 

“Alfie,” Tommy whispers, hoarsely, when the pain has eased.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

He sounds so earnest that Alfie opens one eye again, unsure what to say… scared he’ll ruin the moment.

“I need you, Alfie.”

It’s Alfie’s turn to swallow hard. “Course you do you silly boy,” he murmurs. “Everyone needs a highly volatile, verbose Jew in their lives, right?”

“Right,” Tommy sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching into what could almost be considered a smile, before they both fall into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter. And all feedback still very much needed! Thanks for reading. x


	5. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tommy is sad, Alfie is hungry and the staff are quietly shocked...

It's late afternoon when Alfie wakes up and he is absolutely starving. Tommy is, miraculously, still asleep. Alfie wonders who in this enormous house deals with food – clearly not Tommy, or everyone would starve. Better wander downstairs and find that housekeeper. He wonders vaguely if the staff have noticed that he’s been asleep in Tommy’s room, although frankly he doesn’t really give a shit if they have. It’s not like they’ve done a very good job of looking after their boss – what do they care if someone else does?

He hauls himself up slowly, careful not to disturb the man beside him and finds his way downstairs. Frances is in Tommy’s office, tidying the mess. The desk itself is still on its side, like a wrecked ship, a bleak reminder of the previous night's storm – Alfie looks away, not ready to reflect on the state of mind that lead to this carnage. It’s not that he isn’t familiar with the sort of rage that rips through you physically, makes you feel strong, of course he is, he’s feared for it. But Tommy? That's not his style. Tommy is contained and defiant and icily controlled. Usually. Which is precisely what makes Alfie feel so uneasy.

He clears his throat, startling the woman before him who looks up nervously from where she is collecting papers on the floor. Alfie is leaning on the doorframe, wearing only his trousers and undershirt, decidedly dishevelled but imposing nonetheless.

“Good...good afternoon sir,” she stammers, clearly intimidated, whether by his physical presence or the rather unfortuitous circumstances of their previous meetings he can’t tell.

“So what does one have to do to get some food around here?” he asks.

“I’ll ask cook to prepare something,” she replies, “what can I get you sir?”

“What does Mr Shelby like to eat?” he asks, “we could both do with a meal.”

A nervous look passes across the woman’s face and she fidgets with the papers in her hands before asking, "how is he? Mr Shelby?"

"Fucked if you ask me," he says, seeing no point in being anything but blunt. But when he notes the concern in her eyes he softens a little and adds, "he's sleeping right now. Which is good, yeah. So, what does he usually eat?" 

“Ah…well… sometimes Mr Shelby will have a little of what chef prepares for dinner for Charlie and the staff.”

“Sometimes?”

“He’s…he's very busy, often working late. He’s not really one for regular meals, sir.”

“No, that much I’d figured. But it will soon be dinner time, so presumably someone is preparing something? When did he last eat a meal?”

He sees her hesitate, reluctant to break her boss’s confidence he supposes. Well, he can respect that, but at the same time he hasn’t entirely forgiven her for what he perceives to be a certain lack of care where Tommy’s welfare is concerned. He isn’t sure exactly what the remit of a housekeeper is, but to his mind providing the primary resident of the house with basic sustenance ought to be a part of it, right?

“Now look, Frances,” he says, deliberately lowering his voice and slowly folding his arms, “I am a good friend of Mr Shelby’s. A _very_ good friend. And given that his family seems to be somewhat…”he pauses, searching for the right word, “..._dispersed_ at the moment, I will be hanging around for a while. Because someone needs to look after him and I don’t get the impression that that has been happening around here. Case in point, last night.”

She looks at her feet.

“Yeah….so why don’t you and I just be honest with each other, hmm? If you actually care about your boss, Frances,…and I think that you do…then just help me out here. I’ll ask you again. When did he last have dinner?”

He watches her frown and thinks maybe he’s been a bit harsh. She seems the caring type, and god knows it can’t be easy living with Tommy.“Well, sir,” she starts, “let me think. Actual dinner…that would have been Monday night, when Johnny came up with a catch from the river.”

Alfie shakes his head, “right, so four fuckin’ days ago?”

“It's been worse of late. He hasn't really been himself these past few weeks. I do leave out some cheese and biscuits every night,” she adds, as if realising how bad it sounds. “He sometimes picks at that a little when he's working late.”

Alfie sighs,_ the man is a hazard to himself._“Right. Bring us some bread and soup would you? And some cheese and biscuits. Outside, in an hour. Oh, and Frances, I’m gonna be staying a while. Till he’s back on ‘is feet.”

He could be mistaken but he would swear that Frances actually looks a little relieved. “Of course, I’ll have the girls make up a guest bedroom for you.”

“No need. I'll be sharing Mr Shelby’s room,” he adds definitively, holding her gaze, squinting to gauge the reaction. If there is one, she hides it quickly.

He stalks back off upstairs to wake Tommy. Fresh air and sustenance, that’s what’s in order. No chance of addressing whatever else is troubling him until some basic fucking needs are met round here.

———

When he gets upstairs, Tommy is traipsing slowly back from the bathroom. The sight of him in the cold light of day, wearing only his boxers, catches Alfie off guard. It’s suddenly very clear how fucking thin he is; he looks frail…brittle. The purple circles under his eyes match the colour of the darkening bruise on his temple.He looks like a man who hasn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks…which probably isn’t too far from the truth if what Frances has just told him is right. Normally it’d make Alfie angry, how reckless Tommy can be with his own health, but not now. Now, he’s just plain worried.

“What?” Tommy asks, obviously conscious of Alfie’s eyes on him.

“Nothing love, how are you feeling?”

“How d'you fucking think?,” Tommy snaps, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, head bowed. “ Like a fucking idiot. Who the fuck falls down their own stairs?”

“Oh, I dunno…someone who’s been working too much, drinking too hard and ignoring the human body’s basic requirements for sleep and nourishment?” Alfie suggests, sitting down next to him. He turns to look at Tommy, who continues to stare at the floor. _God, he’s gonna have to play this carefully._

“Tommy,” he starts, deciding to go with a little honesty, “for someone so fucking capable, you can't half be blind sometimes."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tommy asks.

_“_Just take a look around you, mate,” Alfie says, gesturing at the large bay window and the land beyond. “Look at what you’ve built for yourself, and your kid, and that mad, ungrateful, fucked up family of yours.”

Tommy turns his head to look across at the vast estate, and just huffs, “yeah, look where that got me. They all hate my guts, Alfie.”

_Yeah, well, you did get them all banged up, love, _he thinks, although that's not what he actually says. Because whilst people may think that Alfie Solomons throws out words indiscriminately, like a chimney spews out smoke, nothing could be further from the truth. His thoughts are very carefully considered and filtered before they leave his mouth. Most of the time. 

_“_Well that’s ‘cause they're fuckin’ idiots innit? It’s not exactly like they were angels– you live by the sword, you die by the sword right? Which, might I point out, none of them did. Because you, Tommy, didn’t let that happen. So to be honest mate, I don’t really get what their fuckin’ problem is.” 

Tommy just shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose in that way he does when he's finding something difficult to listen to. Or maybe it's just that he knows Alfie doesn't understand...doesn't _get_ why family is such a big deal. And Alfie isn't even going to pretend to get it. All he knows is that Tommy needs his family and that he doesn't function well without them. That's just how it is. But he is _not_ going to sit back and watch Tommy fall apart over them either.

“Point is, you can’t do this shit day in and day out on your own. Things just stop working. Up here...” Alfie says, tapping the side of Tommy’s head with his index finger. Tommy ducks his head irritably to the side, out of the way, which makes Alfie sigh. Why can't those fucking Shelbys see what this mess has cost him? Too wrapped up in their own problems to see that Tommy's the one fucking breaking here. Honestly, Alfie could fuckin' kill 'em...if only that wouldn't upset Tommy so much. 

"Let me _in_, love," he says. "I want more than the odd fuck, the odd night snatched together… so much fuckin’ more.” 

He reaches round to cup Tommy’s left cheek in his palm, because damn the man, he won’t look at Alfie willingly and he’s trying to make a serious point here. Trying to break through that veneer of control which, let’s face it, looks pretty cracked at the moment anyway.

"And I am aware that this is difficult and dangerous and, well, technically illegal, but I try never to let _sanity_ get in the way of what I want. And I want _you_ Tommy. _All_ of you. The good and the bad. The days and the nights.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Tommy whispers, shaking his head, barely audible.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know what it means.”

“I’ve got a fairly good idea, mate. We’re too _old_ to keep playing these games. You think that just ‘cause I’ve seen you vulnerable, now you’ve gotta put those walls back up ... prove how impervious you are? Well fuck that Tommy – 'cause I know you’ve got feelings under there.”

Tommy tries to turn his head away, to escape the gaze. But Alfie is too quick and brings up his other hand to hold it still, to _force_ him to listen.

“Men like us, we don’t live by normal rules, Tommy. The things we’ve _seen_, the things we’ve _done_, they degrade us and they separate us … but they also _elevate_ us. Who else is ever gonna understand that, hmmm? I’ve had enough of pretending to feel less than I do. I’m fuckin’ _tired_ of it. And yeah, I’m scared an’all. Alright? Scared you’ll finally break mate, and I’ll never feel like this again.”

Tommy has closed his eyes. Because of course he has. Disappeared off into that fucking head of his, as if to prove that Alfie might be holding him in an iron grip but he can still shut everything out.

“Look at me for _Christ’s_ sake. Stop overthinking this thing and just let me _help_ you. Let me _love_ you alright?”He waits, heart in his mouth, for Tommy to say something, to say the words back to him, like he has once before. But when he does finally open his eyes, all Alfie can see is hurt and sadness and exhaustion. He looks so fucking _lonely _... afraid ... eyes glassy and distant. And Alfie thinks that perhaps he's expecting too much. He sighs and pulls Tommy towards him, presses a soft kiss to each eyelid, tasting salt on his lips. He kisses the purple bruise on Tommy’s temple, tenderly, and wishes it was enough to soothe him, to fix him. He reaches down to Tommy's mouth, that mouth that has tormented him since their very first meeting, and runs his thumb along the lower lip, pulling it down gently.

“So how about it, love?” he asks softly, letting his hands drop by his sides. When Tommy’s gaze flickers up he looks so sad, so fucking _fragile_ it makes Alfie's heart ache...literally ache in his chest. It is not a feeling Alfie is familiar with, not one he has encountered much in his unconventional life.

But then he feels Tommy's weight shift, his body tipping forward, head bowing low until his forehead comes to rest, very deliberately, on Alfie's knee. It's an act of such utter surrender that Alfie is momentarily stunned. He inhales sharply, straightening his back and lifting his hands out of the way, as if touching Tommy right now might break something, shatter the moment. His hands hover in the air like feathers caught on the breeze, until slowly, very gradually, he dares to bring one down, to place it on the back of Tommy's head, to stroke the velvet stubble scattered there. _Yeah, Tommy wants him alright_, he can feel the shaky breaths, the need unravelling within him – like a year’s worth of want is finally giving way. And fuck if it doesn’t make Alfie the happiest man alive. He feels no need to speak, Tommy's gesture of submission saying nothing and everything more perfectly than he ever could have hoped for. And so they just sit in the silence of the golden afternoon whilst Alfie fights through pursed lips to keep his own tears in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, it's got sappy...forgive me...


	6. Bruised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a cardigan. And things may or may not take a turn for the worse...

When several minutes have passed and Alfie has finally wrecked the moment by absent-mindedly trying to wrap his arms around Tommy (prompting much hissing, cursing and entreaties to leave it with the fucking bear-hugs for a while) they are both composed enough to consider moving.

“Right, supper is being prepared for us," Alfie says carefully, unsure how this idea will go down. "I thought we could eat outside...get a bit of fresh air and daylight, hmm? 'Cause it’s a nice evening and to be honest, you're starting to look a bit like a vampire, love. One that's been in a nasty fight. So, you feel up to it?”

“Yeah, OK,” Tommy agrees, choosing to ignore the vampire comment. “Not sure what the fuck I’m supposed to wear over this though,” he adds, glancing down at his bandaged arm and hand.

“Gonna be giving the three-piece suits a miss for a while, love,” snorts Alfie, although it is actually a problem he realises. “Got enough wardrobes in here, mate,” he muses, strolling over and opening random doors. “Don’t you own a cardigan?”

“Sports sweaters, far right,” Tommy gestures, “think there’s something with buttons. Don’t fucking laugh.” 

Tommy is awkwardly pulling on his trousers with one hand when Alfie returns, holding up a chunky, button-fronted jumper with a thick shawl collar. It could definitely be considered a cardigan. “Blue, to match your eyes,” he deadpans.

“Fuck off,” Tommy counters, snatching it from him. He struggles with it one-handed for a moment before throwing it on the bed in frustration. Alfie simply picks it up and starts undoing the buttons for him, then holds it up for Tommy to slip his right arm into. He pulls it round his back and very cautiously over the left shoulder, before fastening the lower buttons. Tommy glowers like a petulant child throughout, which Alfie rather enjoys actually.“Think that’ll ‘ave to do,” he smiles, unable to fasten the top two buttons over the splinted hand. It takes all his willpower and then some to refrain from making a snarky comment.

Alfie pulls on his own shirt and boots and heads to the bathroom briefly, emerging a few minutes later with water dripping from his hair and beard. Tommy has managed to pull on his boots in the meantime, and is now bent over fiddling with the laces, which quite clearly is never going to work with just the one hand. Alfie looks down, mouth curling at Tommy’s refusal to admit defeat, until eventually Tommy can’t stand it any more and sits up, looking at Alfie as if to say _you fucking do it then_. Alfie obliges and kneels down at Tommy’s feet.

“Not a fucking word,” Tommy mutters, face burning. For once, Alfie complies.

“Right, food,” he announces, holding a hand out to pull Tommy up from the bed. Tommy refuses to take, it muttering “there’s nothing wrong with my legs,” to which Alfie just rolls his eyes. 

Once in the hallway, Alfie can't help but stare at the dark red stains on the stair carpet. However you look at it, that's a lot of blood lost and he can’t help but instinctively reach out to put his arm around Tommy’s waist. Perhaps Tommy has noticed too, or maybe he’s not quite as together as he'd like Alfie to believe, because he doesn’t shrug him off, just lets himself be guided down. 

–––

The sun is shining low in the sky when they reach the table on the lawn, and Tommy seems to relax a little, slumping back in his chair. Frances appears and places a bowl of soup in front of each of them, and a tray of cheese and biscuits in the centre. Alfie dives in like a man who hasn’t eaten for days. His last meal was in London 24 hours ago – it’s a wonder he hasn’t killed someone by now.He’s halfway through his own bowl before he looks up at Tommy, who has picked up his spoon but is just staring at the contents of the bowl like he’s somewhat confused. It makes Alfie feel strangely sad, the way Tommy is so completely detached from his physical needs. “You’re s’posed to eat it, mate,” he says softly, scanning the too pale skin.

“Gimme a minute,” Tommy says quietly, “not feelin’ too good.”

“Yeah, right,” Alfie says, resting his own spoon for a minute, concern giving way to irritation. “Well, this ain’t happening, mate. This whole _I don’t need to eat _thing_,”_ he says, gesturing vaguely at Tommy’s meal. “You are made of flesh and bone, just like the rest of us. And I happen to know you ain’t had a proper meal in days. So eat. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Alfie, I really don’t feel….” Tommy starts to protest, but Alfie glares so hard that he stops mid-sentence and reaches for a cracker, crunching it dejectedly. Alfie returns to his own meal, quickly finishing the soup and helping himself to the cheese. He’s pretending not to watch Tommy, keeping his eyes trained on his own plate, but in reality his attention is entirely focused on how much, or, more accurately, how little food the tiresome idiot in front of him is consuming. As soon as the first cracker has gone Alfie leans over the table and hands him another, without even looking up. Tommy sighs. “I’m not a child,” he huffs.

“Stop acting like one then and eat the fucking soup. It’s hot and it's good.”

Tommy takes a few half-hearted spoonfuls before resting back in his chair, as if in need of a break. It’s like he views eating as some sort of _endurance_ event … it's utterly unfathomable to Alfie. Still, at least he’s trying. He thinks how strange it is to see Tommy like this, without his suit, in the fresh air, eyes closed, head tilted up to the sky with the early evening sun on his cheeks. It suits him.

After a couple of minutes’ rest, Tommy opens his eyes and peers at Alfie through those long lashes, head still tilted back. “Stop looking at me,” he grumbles.

“Give a man a break. It’s a lovely view,” Alfie reasons. “Be even more lovely with a bit more flesh on them bones.” 

Tommy takes the hint and sits forward again, with a sigh, to resume the apparently tortuous task of consuming soup. It takes an inordinate amount of time, his progress punctuated by lengthy pauses during which Alfie does his best not to appear impatient. Eventually he makes it through most of the bowl's contents.

“There, satisfied?” he huffs as he puts the spoon down for the last time.

“It’s a start,” Alfie says, although in reality he is unduly pleased. They sit in companionable silence for ten minutes. Tommy fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights up. Alfie considers commencing a monologue on windows, prompted by the unfeasible fucking number of the things in Tommy’s house, but thinks better of it, opting instead to enjoy the silence. It is a very pleasant view, he can give it that, such a far cry from London or Small Heath. If it weren’t for all the bloody birds he could rather enjoy it here he thinks. Maybe needs a few dogs – bit of a waste having all this land without any dogs to enjoy it, but yeah, he can see the appeal.

“I need to go in,” Tommy announces urgently, out of nowhere, rousing Alfie from his thoughts. He stands up too quickly and looks panicked, before stumbling alarmingly from the table just in time to vomit violently over the grass. Alfie is out if his seat in a second, holding Tommy around the waist as he collapses onto his knees, retching repeatedly, leaning onto his right arm for balance.Alfie's heart sinks; he can’t help but feel dismayed – not only for the much-needed nourishment lost – but for all Tommy's heart-breaking effort gone to waste. He feels ridiculously guilty, like he has force-fed the man. When finally the heaving stops Tommy looks exhausted, weight resting on his one good hand, shivers running down his back as his head droops ever closer to the ground.

"Sorry," he whispers after a few moments, as though the worst thing about this whole situation is that he has disappointed Alfie. _Fuck_.

Alfie wants to tell him it's fine, but finds his throat clenched so tight that for once in his life, he can’t speak. He rubs Tommy’s back instead, waiting until the shuddering subsides before he pulls him up gently so that he’s sitting on his heels, head resting on Alfie’s shoulder. Frances appears at the steps, but Alfie waves her away with his hand, fearing Tommy won't want an audience.

In the end he has to accept her help, there's no other way to get Tommy back inside. He's as white as a sheet and has abandoned any pretence of being fine...can barely get to his feet. They support him, one on each side, as he stumbles back to the house sweating and shaking and painfully quiet. Twice on the way up the stairs he doubles over and grips hold of Alfie so hard it hurts. Whether it’s pain or nausea Alfie isn’t sure, and doesn’t trouble Tommy by asking, focused purely on getting him back into the bedroom and off his feet as quickly as he can.

This time, when Tommy's perched on the edge of the bed and Alfie is helping him out of his boots there’s no trace of protest, just a heavy weariness. He lets Alfie undo the buttons of his jumper and ease him out of his trousers. By the time he’s down to his underwear his skin looks like wax and he's covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, then some rest, yeah?” he says. Even the short walk from the bed to the ensuite bathroom seems to leave Tommy breathless – he leans heavily over the sink, weight resting on his one available arm. Alfie can see him testing his balance, fingers flexing as if he’s trying to let go of the sink but daren’t.

“Let me, eh?” he says, moving behind Tommy to hold him firmly round the waist with his left arm. He leans over and turns the tap on, before circling Tommy’s lower ribs with his other arm, carefully avoiding the slung hand. Then they’re just standing there, Alfie’s chest pressed against the cold sweat of Tommy’s back, literally holding him up. He’s acutely aware that he can’t lose his grasp on this man. He sincerely wishes he hadn’t brought Tommy to the bathroom at all (too many hard surfaces). He feels as though he is the only thing between Tommy and total disintegration – like he might shatter into a thousand pieces in his arms and skitter across the floor. 

“Go on love, I’ve gotcha,” he says, holding his weight so that Tommy can use his own hand to splash water into his face and mouth. Alfie feels Tommy’s muscles trembling with the effort of not buckling as he splashes his face a few more times before slamming his hand back onto the sink edge for support.

“Bed,” Tommy rasps.

“Can you walk?” Alfie asks, because it really doesn’t feel like he can, but at the same time he’s not sure his back’s up to carrying him.

Tommy nods once into the mirror in front of them. As Alfie carefully releases his grip on Tommy’s waist he notices the large, dark bruise on his left flank. Strange he hasn’t seen that before, didn’t notice it this morning.

“Your back hurt, love?” he asks as Tommy straightens up with a pained expression.

“Everything fucking hurts.”

———

Alfie sorts out the pillows, lying Tommy back tentatively, making sure his shoulder is supported. As he pulls the blankets up, Tommy’s eyelids look unbearably heavy, pupils dark and dilated. Alfie strokes the hair from his face, asks whether he’s comfortable, where it hurts, but the answers are indecipherable, as though Tommy is drunk or already half-asleep. The last half-hour has proved an ordeal for both of them and Alfie curses himself for making Tommy leave the bedroom at all. Fucking pointless anyway, he didn’t even keep any of the food down. He can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right...Tommy's so pale and weak. Surely he shouldn’t be struggling this much – the shoulder and arm are both strapped up, right? He's not bleeding. Maybe it's the concussion. Hmmm.

“Alright Tommy, you just get some rest, yeah?” he murmurs, stroking the side of his face.

“Tell our Ada to keep the noise down,” Tommy croaks.

Alfie leans over him, concerned. “Ada’s in New York, love. Has been for months.”

“She’ll wake Karl,” Tommy continues, as if he hasn’t heard him.

“Karl’s not here either Tommy. He’s with Ada. In New York. Go to sleep.” 

“We’re in New York?” Tommy asks, brow knitting in confusion.

Alfie places a hand on his forehead. It’s cold and clammy. “Tommy, love, you with me?” he asks. Tommy just groans and rolls his head to one side. Alfie lifts his eyelids one at a time — revealing a glassy gaze that seem a million miles away — maybe they've overdone it going downstairs, or maybe he’s just plain exhausted from running on adrenaline and whiskey for weeks. Alfie doesn’t really believe that, but it’s getting late, and what else can he do now? He’ll wake him in a bit, check on him then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, let me know your thoughts, questions, suggestions...anything really. It all keeps me going! And thank you for reading.


	7. Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some people are worried and others absolutely infuriating...

Alfie sits bolt upright in the bed next to Tommy, like a guard dog on high alert, pondering what to do. Very soon there is a knock on the door and Mary appears to ask if there’s anything they need. She makes a point of focusing about two feet above Alfie’s head for the duration of their brief interaction – as if pretending she hasn’t noticed that he is sitting in Tommy’s bed. He’d be tempted to have some fun with this overly prim woman if he weren’t so fucking on edge. As it is, he just requests water and something to read and is shortly presented with a tray and the newspaper.

It was a pretty stupid request because he can’t actually concentrate on anything other than Tommy, who is fitfully asleep next to him, mumbling incoherently. Alfie is already rethinking his decision to let Tommy sleep – that bruise playing on his mind. When the mumbling gives way to groaning, he decides it's time to act.

“Tommy love, time to wake up, eh?” he says, stroking his head firmly.

“Come on, you need to drink something,” he says, running fingers through his hair.

Tommy mumbles in response but seems unable to move himself, so Alfie slides one arm under his back and eases him up awkwardly from the pillows. Tommy lolls forward like a rag doll as Alfie struggles to tilt him, to check his side. He ends up flopped onto his knees, bent almost double with Alfie's arm trapped between his thighs and his torso. And there it is again – that bruise –only this time it's significantly larger and the colour of overripe cherries. _Fuck, _Alfie realises with a sinking feeling...internal bleeding_…fuckety fuck._

He extracts his arm and manages to roll Tommy’s limp body onto his right hand side - at which point it’s even more obvious that something isn’t right because he starts to retch, convulsively. It's pitiful and terrifying in equal measure and sends Alfie leaping out of bed and into the hall where he bellows for someone to call the doctor, to get upstairs _right this fucking second_!

And then he's back by the bed, knelt on the floor watching Tommy vomiting over the mattress. There’s next to nothing in his stomach after the earlier episode, but apparently Tommy’s body doesn’t care and continues to expel anything it can ... blood ... bile ... stomach lining ... fuck knows. And yeah, Alfie’s seen his fair share of broken bodies, has caused a good proportion of them, but the thing is he's just never really _given_ a shit before. Hasn't fucking _cared_ so much. Tommy’s hand reaches out across the bed and Alfie grabs hold of it, willing the desperate heaving and spluttering to stop, telling him in the calmest voice he can muster that everything’s gonna be alright, he’s gonna be just fine. If only Alfie fucking believed it.

Frances appears in the doorway and stops briefly, eyes wide, before bolting into the bathroom and returning with towels which she uses to mop at the mattress. Alfie tries not to dwell on how shocked she looks because, yeah, it looks bad, he fucking knows that. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did he let him go to sleep? Why didn’t he notice it earlier? Why didn’t the bloody doctor notice it? _If something happens to Tommy he’s going to kill that man with his bare hands. 

Doctor White is back within half an hour, but _fuck_ it’s the longest half hour Alfie can remember. The hideous retching subsides after a while, which ought to be a good thing because at least it must be less distressing for Tommy, but now he seems even weaker, his breathing shallower, his pulse fluttering noticeably in his neck. His skin is cold to the touch and he shivers uncontrollably despite the extra blankets Frances has piled on him.

Alfie does his best to keep Tommy from falling asleep again; sits on the mattress next to him, gripping his hand and stroking his hair just a bit too roughly. He mutters nonsense, rambles about the life cycle of bees and the pointlessness of honey – which he fucking hates as it happens – sickly gloopy shit, tastes like hay-fever. To be honest he doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s talking about but it’s calming his own nerves and seems to soothe Tommy, so he just keeps going, taking the intermittent grunts as signs of consciousness.

Doctor White is so visibly unnerved by the sight that greets him when he re-enters the bedroom that Alfie wants to punch him, because he doesn't fucking _need_ to be told, is already _very well aware_ that this is looking bleak. The doctor makes no comment on the clear intimacy between Mr Shelby and his rather fearsome companion, just examines the patient and confirms Alfie’s suspicions, it is internal bleeding. Unusual but certainly possible from a hard fall, particularly in a susceptible patient...one who's survived a few severe beatings for example...or perhaps been drinking too heavily. _No shit_.

"Shock," the doctor mumbles, "he's in shock. We need fluids..." He sounds far more shaken than Alfie would like. "His blood pressure's dangerously low. And when did he last drink anything?"

"Drink?" Alfie says, stupidly, as if he doesn't know what that means.

"Water? Tea? He's severely dehydrated."

Shit...Alfie doesn't know. Hours and hours ago. And he's been sick. He's such an idiot

"I’ll need to rig up a drip, he’s in no state to be moved – I have supplies in my car,” he explains, already heading for the door.

“Well go and _fuckin_’ get ‘em then,” Alfie yells, somewhat unnecessarily as the doctor does appear to be fully aware of the urgency of the situation.

In the meantime Alfie and Frances try to make Tommy more comfortable. Alfie is grateful to have the woman there, she is efficient despite her obvious distress, and together they manage to change the damp bed sheets under Tommy without moving him too much. Frances has brought fresh blankets as well as a basin and flannel with which she proceeds to wash Tommy’s face and neck. Alfie can’t help but feel irrationally jealous watching someone else perform so intimate an act, but he doesn't intervene...too busy feeling intensely, staggeringly guilty. For taking Tommy outside...for making him eat when he clearly felt awful...for not making him drink...for not noticing how ill he was... for letting him go back to sleep.

He is standing stock still beside the bed, frozen for a moment, heart racing, until Frances puts a hand lightly on his arm and says,

"you're not a nurse, Mr Solomons. You couldn't have known." 

When the doctor returns, he rushes straight past Alfie and wastes no time in passing the needle into Tommy’s right hand, fixing the bag of fluid to the bed post. As Alfie watches the liquid drip slowly into Tommy’s vein he feels his shoulders start to loosen. Over the next hour Tommy's breathing steadied and the shivering subsides. By 10pm, he is lying pale and still, propped onto his right side with yet more pillows. The doctor leaves them then, with a second bag of saline in place. He instructs Alfie to keep him as still as possible to give the bleeding the best chance to stop of its own accord. 

“No unnecessary movement, no disruption. Keep him warm and as comfortable as you can. If he wakes, make him drink. If he's distressed, give him the morphine. If he needs to piss then improvise, but he is not to get out of that bed, under any circumstances, for the next 24 hours.”

“And what if it doesn't stop? The bleeding?” Alfie asks.

“Then drive him to the nearest hospital Mr Solomons.”

And so begins one of the longest nights of Alfie’s life. It is truly a curse he thinks, to have to watch helplessly whilst his lover suffers. Tommy looks so small in the huge bed, surrounded by pillows, wire snaking out of his hand. Alfie lies next to him under the blankets, staring intently, registering every clench of Tommy’s jaw, every furrow of his brow. He can’t keep his hands to himself, wants Tommy to know that he’s not alone. If he’s absolutely honest, he's also reassuring himself that the man lying next to him is still warm, still breathing, still alive. He can’t even hold his hand now he realises sadly, one stitched and bandaged, the other fitted with the drip. He settles for resting one hand on Tommy’s hip – stroking the hollow dip under his bone – whilst the other gently strokes the dark hair on his head.

They lie like this for a long time. Tommy’s body calms under Alfie’s caresses and his brow smooths out a little until eventually, who knows how much later, Alfie certainly doesn't...time is an abstract concept right now...he whispers to Alfie, “I’m not a bloody cat.” Alfie smirks, let's out a nervous laugh too, because he is just so ridiculously pleased to hear that voice. He feels himself dare to relax, the tension of the last twelve hours starting to leave his muscles. 

He wakes with a jolt sometime later, to the sound of Tommy gasping frantically beside him, his breath coming in shuddering rasps. He isn’t sure what’s happening at first, until it all becomes depressingly familiar – of course, it was too much to hope that Tommy’s demons would give him one night’s respite from the nightmares.

“Shhh, Tommy love it’s just a dream,” he says, stroking his head firmly, “Tommy, wake up.” But Tommy continues to gasp, flinching away from Alfie’s touch, hand snapping up to cover his head. Alfie grasps Tommy’s wrist tightly, determined not to let him pull the drip from his hand, but this just seems to make him panic more. As he starts to flail and kick all Alfie can think of is that crimson bruise and how he must stop him moving, keep him still.

“For fuck’s sake Tommy,” he growls in exasperation, and grips Tommy's face in his hand, hard, swinging one thigh over Tommy’s legs too. “I’ve gotcha, I’ve gotcha, love,” he repeats several times. “You’re safe, just a dream, you’re at home.” After a few more seconds the words seem to get through, Tommy stops fighting him and the gasping breaths ease.

“Fucking, _fucking_ hell, love” Alfie sighs as he cradles Tommy’s head in his hands, kissing his damp hairline and pressing their foreheads together.

And then he waits …not much else he can do. He knows that usually, after one of these nightmares, Tommy will be awake for hours – but tonight he doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t speak, so Alfie can’t tell – just welcomes the feeling of Tommy’s head growing heavy in his hands and the peace when it eventually comes.

By the time the light starts filtering through the curtains Alfie has eased himself out of the bed and is pacing the room, too wired to sleep. Tommy seems peaceful, and Alfie has checked that bruise at least a dozen times. It doesn’t seem to have grown. He goes to stand by the window, peaking out through the heavy curtains at the mist over the grounds. He’s gonna have to ring Ollie this morning, make plans for the next few days. Might even have to get someone to drive up with some paperwork. One thing is for certain though – he is _not_ going anywhere.

A hoarse voice startles him from the other side of the room, “mornin’ Alfie.”

He wonders if he has ever been so pleased to hear a Birmingham accent in his life.

“Give us a hand,” Tommy croaks.

He is trying to sit up for fucks sake – Alfie all but bounds over to the bed to stop him.

“Where the fuck d’ya think you’re going?” he asks, sitting down on the bed and unceremoniously forcing Tommy’s head back into the pillows with the palm of his hand.

“Need a piss,” Tommy replies, looking cross .

“You’ll ‘ave to use this,” Alfie says, reaching under the bed and bringing out a jug Frances has left for the purpose.

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, “just help me to the bathroom will you?”

“Not on your life, mate, doctor’s orders” Alfie says, "and you’re still rigged up to that thing,” he points at the drip, “so swallow yer pride and piss in the jug.”

Tommy looks from his hand to the drip in utter confusion, like he doesn’t remember any of it. Which in fairness, he probably doesn’t, he was pretty out of it last night.

“You’ve got internal bleeding mate. Fucked your kidney. So you ain’t sitting up, ain’t moving from that bed, aint’ so much as _blinking_ too fast, until I say so. Right?”

Tommy rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, sighing deeply, like he’s trying to muster some form of rebellion but is clearly too weak to act upon it. He looks fucking awful Alfie thinks, even worse than yesterday. His face is hollow and his skin, where it isn’t bruised, is as grey as a Birmingham sky. He lays slumped on the pillows, apparently resigned, but then brings his right hand up to his mouth and proceeds to pull the long needle out of his vein with his teeth.

“For fucks sake Tommy!” Alfie shouts.

“Bag’s empty,” Tommy states calmly, raising his eyes to the drip attached to the bed post, “and if you think I’m letting you hold that jug for me while I piss in it, you’ve got another think coming. Pass it over,” he says, holding out his now unencumbered hand.

Alfie thinks Tommy might just be the most infuriating human being he has ever met, but he hands over the jug anyway, before rubbing his hands through his hair in exasperation.

“Fuck off a minute then,” Tommy huffs and for a second Alfie considers launching into a full blown, curse-filled rant about _exactly_ how fucking worried he’s been. In a rare moment of equanimity he decides instead to take himself to the bathroom, figuring that if Tommy’s aggravating him this much he must be feeling better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there folks....thanks for continuing to read, let me know what you thought (please? Pretty please...?)


	8. Tamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are horses and promises and maybe, just maybe some sex...be warned...

If he's absolutely honest with himself, Tommy knew that disappearing on a lengthy ride this afternoon – without telling anyone – was not going to go down well. Alfie doesn't like horses at the best of times, let alone when Tommy, only recently freed from bedrest, is riding one with his left arm still bandaged to his side.

In Tommy's defense, it had been a very testing call with Michael. On top of which he's been cooped up in the house now for two whole weeks, with no way of letting off the steam that's slowly been building alongside his strength. His shoulder seems fine, the bleeding has stopped and his hand, well, it might not be great but no one needs to know that. There has been no respite from the concerned eyes and worried mutterings ... the way Alfie and Frances whisper between themselves, conspiring against him...treating him like this intensely fragile creature. He just needed some escape. A release. The stables just _called_ to him and it's not like he was going to ask _permission_ for fuck's sake.  
  
Yes, he knew that it would likely result in a blazing row, which, if he really analyses it, is probably at least partly why he did it. Because as much as he appreciates everything Alfie has done for him since the incident (as he has labelled it) or the total fucking breakdown (as Alfie calls it) there's just no getting away from the fact that he has felt more than a little bit smothered. Things have just been too _careful_ too _calm_.  
  
It's not that he can't see Alfie's point of view. He's not a complete idiot – he gets that what he did scared him. Hell, he scared himself. And Alfie has been so fucking cautious with him, so considerate, so deliberately non-demanding. Charlie has been delighted to find Alfie Bear in the house. Sometimes Tommy thinks Alfie would make a better parent than he does.

Things _are_ more bearable with him around...he doesn't spend quite so much time stewing...or actively trying not to think about everything. And Alfie is good at distracting him; when Tommy's been quiet for too long he'll read something out from the newspaper, or start a debate about export duties, or ask for a game of chess. The thing is he's subtle about it, which Tommy appreciates more than he would ever admit. He hasn't pushed him ... hasn't asked too many questions ... has just been here with his watchful eyes and gentle hands and rambling conversations. He's solid and warm and occasionally grumpy...which is comforting. Not that he needs comfort, but, you know, it's just nice. If only it weren't starting to make him feel _trapped_.

He knows that it's churlish to feel this way, but beneath it all is this undercurrent of _guilt_; Alfie's strangely misplaced sense that he has somehow _caused_ this situatuon or made it _worse_...which is fucking ridiculous because Tommy is fully aware that the only person he has to blame for any of this is himself. He wanted Alfie, he still wants Alfie and knows that his desire for Alfie is partly what led to this whole episode in the first place. He's the one person who's here and who cares and whose company he craves. Everyone else hates him and he shouldn't begrudge the one person who's actually stuck around, He _gets_ that. He just wishes that Alfie would take off the kid gloves. Stop treating him like he's an invalid. Fucking _fuck_ him for christ's sake. He isn't actually broken, but he's worried that that is how Alfie sees him now. Like this damaged thing to be taken care of. 

  
___

  
He hadn't been entirely surprised to see Alfie standing by the stables when he'd galloped back towards the house. Tommy knew he'd come looking, because he hasn't been much farther than a few rooms away since that bloody night. He could tell by Alfie's stance that he wasn't happy...the way his shoulders were set, his arms folded. And yes, that may just have made him gallop a little faster – to see how he'd react. When he'd seen Alfie's anger, heard him yelling at him at the top of his voice for being so fucking _reckless_, it had spurred him on. It had felt _good_. Normal.  
  
So he'd slowed up, stopped by the gate where Alfie stood and watched the stable hands quickly scatter, no doubt keen to avoid a confrontation (although they'd probably already had one judging by the look on Alfie's face). Yes, he should probably have left it there...been satisfied to see the fire in the man's eyes. But he didn't. For some reason he felt driven to provoke him further. There was something about the way Alfie had lowered his voice and hissed out the words,

"you need to be fucking _tamed_, mate,"

that just shot through Tommy like a starting pistol; made him cast a look of utter defiance at the man and set off at a mighty gallop in the opposite direction. He may well have leant back in the saddle, flung his right arm out to the side, made _sure_ that Alfie could see that if he thought one arm was a problem - he should see him ride hands-free.

  
___

  
Which is all a rather convoluted explanation as to how he has ended up here, this evening, flat on his back, tied to his own headboard with Alfie glaring at him like a hungry lion.

"You wanted no hands, eh love?" he'd growled as he fastened the tie around Tommy's right wrist. He’s all but helpless now, his left arm still strapped to his chest.

Perhaps he should be scared, fearful of the crop that Alfie is wielding. Or the fact that he's put on the gramophone, "so the maids won't hear you yelp." Right now Alfie's debating aloud whether or not to gag him. "Nah, think I'd rather hear all those pretty, hurt sounds you're gonna make." The words make him shiver.

But the fact of the matter is that what Tommy feels _most_ right now – alongside the obvious trepidation and the stirring arousal – is relief. Relief that Alfie will do this. Relief that he's not in control.  
  
It's not that Alfie isn't intimidating ... he absolutely is. Deliciously so. Even like this, with his hair dishevelled and his shirt abandoned, he has an undeniable _presence_. He's fucking beautiful Tommy thinks, not that he'd ever say it, but he's so strong and fierce and _sure_ of himself and fuck if that doesn't just _do_ it for Tommy. Even now, when he's ranting ... and he is _really_ ranting, asking Tommy if he has any idea what it was like to find him in that state, to have to patch him up, to realise that he'd done it to _himself_...then to watch him take more risks. But Tommy has no intention of arguing, he wants to hear Alfie say it, to acknowledge that it's Tommy's fault, to free himself from the guilt. And Tommy knows every word is true and accurate and deserved. And that's really the crux of it. That he _deserves_ this. More than deserves it...he _needs_ it.  
  
When Alfie has finished his tirade he pauses, chest heaving, lips thinned, and looks down at him in frustration, or maybe confusion. Tommy doesn't really care so long as he can see there's desire in Alfie's eyes, desire and intent.

"What do I have to _do_ to you?" Alfie asks, as his eyes rake Tommy's body. "Look at you ... tied up and waiting ... so fucking calm ... it's like you're not even _bothered_."

But he is bothered, he's so fucking bothered it hurts. He's scared and he's hungry and he's desperate for Alfie. For Alfie to hurt him, to want him, to love him. He just can't show it with words, can't open his heart or his mouth as easily as Alfie can. But he can show it in other ways...can show it like this.

Above him, Alfie seems momentarily at a loss, which is when Tommy starts to worry. He's irrationally afraid that Alfie might stop or rethink or go easy on him, see him as fractured and weak. Which is the last thing Tommy wants. Alfie seems to register the turmoil, looking him straight in the eye with that penetrating glare, like he’s trying to unpick a knot.

"What is it you fucking _want_, mate?" he asks, looking in equal measure exasperated and perplexed.

And the answer for Tommy is simple, it's been clear in his mind ever since this afternoon, since Alfie said it at the stables. "To be tamed," he says, in a voice that is low and sinful and so _sure_ that Alfie can't question it, can't argue.   
  
And Alfie doesn't argue, thank god. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, makes a humming noise deep in his chest. "Tamed," he repeats with just the hint of a twitch to his mouth, but his eyes are sparkling now and it seems Tommy's words are all the encouragement he needs. He leans forward and growls in a voice that's deliciously wicked, "spread your legs, love."

He looks Tommy straight in the eye as he starts, whipping slowly up each inner thigh, taking his time between swipes, making sure they hit their mark. Tommy lies back and concentrates, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of Alfie watching him. He knows Alfie likes to watch. He can feel the crop getting higher, the skin getting thinner, the marks getting harsher on the delicate flesh. He holds Alfie's gaze for as long as he can, staring back defiantly through the intensifying pain, proving he’s willing to take this, urging him on. The sharp sting of the crop grows into a searing burn and he hisses through the torment – until hissing isn't enough and he has to close his eyes and clench his teeth and groan. Even then, he thinks, there is nowhere on earth he'd rather be.  
  
Alfie turns him after a while, as much as he can at least, pulling Tommy's right knee up and over, pressing it down to the mattress on his left hand side. Then he proceeds to whip livid marks across his newly exposed arse, striking both buttocks fast and hard in a rhythm that's erratic and unforgiving. He is clearly warming to his task, to Tommy's increasingly vocal responses. He doesn't go lightly and doesn't relent, pulling and parting and whipping every inch of intimate skin until Tommy feels like he's covered in fire. It hurts so much but feels so _right_ that his mind can't unravel the feelings...stops trying to after a while, just settles into the pain, into the moment. He feels his defiance rise and coil, like part of him wants to fight against this, but the harder Alfie hits him the more it slips away, his sense of rebellion buried beneath the strikes. He lets his thinking shut down and his body take over...barely aware of the sounds that he's making now, the whimpers and cries that should be humiliating but just make him feel strangely free. And as Alfie continues the beating he feels himself soaring higher, like he's exhilerated, euphoric ... released.

He knows Alfie's watching him, reading him, pushing him – knows he won't stop easily or soon. Yet somehow that makes him feel safer, less inhibited. It's out of his hands and he wants to be challenged, chided, subdued. The level of trust is unfathomable to his rational mind, but he's long since abandoned his reasoning, has given it over to the man with the crop, trusting _him_ to know when to stop. And stop Alfie does, in the end, when he knows Tommy's taken enough, once he's shuddering and trembling and sobbing Alfie's name, eyes burning as much as his skin.   
  
He looks up at Alfie in awe, aware suddenly of how he must look, how he must sound, what he’s _allowed. _When the gramophone stops playing moments later, it's like the silence breaking their spell. It drags Tommy back to himself, allows the shame to creep in; he feels like he's falling or faltering and he has no arms to catch himself. But Alfie just seems to _know_, to see right through him and grasp him before he can plummet. Before Tommy can speak there are hands on his face, warm breath in his ear, soft words being muttered,

"I've gotcha, Tommy, I've gotcha love," and Alfie is _on_ him, crop clattering loudly to the floor as his lips are licked open and he’s being kissed so deeply he can hardly breathe. He doesn't care.

"You're fucking beautiful," Alfie whispers.

"M'not broken," is all he can rasp. 

Not broken, perhaps, but needy and desperate and so fucking sore. Alfie doesn't miss a beat... he knows from the last time that Tommy needs touch, needs warmth, needs closeness...needs _more_. He runs his hand through Tommy's hair, over his face, his lips, his neck, tells him he’s amazing and promises to fuck him so good. Tommy feels so exposed when Alfie moves back, fumbling with his trousers and reaching for the oil. He is already pulling his knees up and pleading when Alfie kneels back between his legs. He lifts Tommy's hips from the bed, grasping raw skin and hauling him closer in one rough motion, before sinking slowly, exquisitely into him. He feels hands on the backs of his knees, holding him open, holding him down...rings digging in as Alfie fucks him gently but thoroughly, head tipped back in pleasure, like he really needs this too. Tommy wants to reach out and hold him, but there's nothing he can do, he's forced to just watch Alfie fill him, hands bound and useless to help. And Alfie is taking his time, taking his pleasure, revelling in the sight of their bodies sliding...joining and slipping and joining once more. And when Tommy can't take any more, is begging for Alfie to touch him, to fist him, to _finish_ him, then Alfie just smiles down and tuts, shaking his head.

"Thought you liked no hands, Tommy?" he says mischievously, and continues the equisite torture. Tommy lifts his head, straining his neck to look down at his untouched hardness. He watches it bounce and leak with every thrust and _whines_ from the strength of his need. Alfie watches him watching but doesn't relent, lips twisted in a satisfied smirk. He looks so fucking pleased with himself that Tommy has to close his eyes, head dropping back down on the pillow, accepting his defeat.

In the end Alfie seems to take pity on him, placing one hand on the hard line of Tommy's cock, slowly encircling the shaft with his fingers. The relief makes Tommy choke out a groan, but the strokes that follow are so casual and gentle that he thinks he might die of need. He can see Alfie watching his every reaction and it only makes him ache with longing for more... for harder... for faster. But Alfie seems intent on drawing this out; he doesn't give in, just continues to stroke him relentlessly slowly until Tommy feels his climax _crawling_ inside him, like it might _never_ make it out. He feels so fucking powerless, so exposed, so fucking _good_.

The hand on his cock is matched in tempo by the strong, slow thrusts that caress and fill and bruise him over and over again until he is arching off the bed, begging and whining,

"please Alfie, faster, more..."

"You'll get what you're given," Alfie replies darkly, refusing to alter his pace. Tommy's climax feels like a dead weight inside him, heavy and reluctant yet undeniably _there_. Every slow pull on his rigid shaft is dragging it imperceptibly closer to the surface until finally, audibly, forcefully he is coming — almost as if in slow motion — in long, viscous ribbons that stripe across Alfie's hand. 

Alfie fucks him all the way through it and far out the other side, intent on keeping this going until who knows fucking when. He tells Tommy he's good and safe and special; that he's a _blessing_ as well as a curse, thoughts and praises spilling from his lips until Tommy can't take it any more, can't take the thrusts, can't take the words, can't take any form of control back because his hands are still bloody _tied_. And he's put himself in this position and why did he ever do that? It's too much...it's too fucking _much_...

Only when Tommy is moaning and shaking and pleading again, so desperately overstimulated he could cry does Alfie give in to his own desire, start moving his hips with intent. The thrusts are hard and fast and selfish and yet Tommy can feel himself building again ... quickly, fiercely, horrifyingly. As Alfie shudders into him, lost in his own release, Tommy feels himself coiling and tipping, shockingly close to the edge. He writhes and groans against it — overwhelmed and powerless to escape — but a second climax hits him, unexpected and painful and dry.

Alfie blinks at him incredulously, still coming down himself. "Did you just...?" he asks in amazement...looking unbearably pleased with himself, "...really? Again?"

"You bastard," Tommy rasps in answer, too shaken to say anymore.

"Fucking hell, Tommy," Alfie says in wonder as he reaches to untie his hand. "I never thought..."

"...shut up, Alfie, just fucking shut up!" Tommy pants, feeling mortified, exposed. He's just come twice, barely seconds apart and now Alfie looks like he won a bloody prize, excessively proud of himself.

But he does shut up, amazingly, pushing one arm under Tommy's neck and pulling him into a careful hug that doesn't hurt his shoulder.

When they've lain, coiled together, for several minutes he feels Alfie shift again. He nuzzles at Tommy's neck, all scratchy beard and soft lips. "I never want you tamed, Tommy," he breathes, earnestly. "_Chastened_ maybe...but never tamed." 

Tommy just hums in agreement, too sated and tired to speak. Alfie strokes his shoulder and continues,

"And next time you feel like breaking, how about you tell me what you need? Let me do it for you? Because _this_," he says, squeezing Tommy's blazing arse, "this right here, is a much _healthier_ coping mechanism."

"Other people might disagree with your definition of healthier." Tommy mumbles, wincing.

"Yeah well, good job we ain't other people then, 'cause that beats whiskey and blood and stairs. And you're so fucking _pretty_ when you're whipped. Even prettier when you beg." 

Tommy laces his fingers through Alfie's, pulls the man's body closer and thinks he can't remember when he last felt this peaceful. It's ironic, given what they're discussing. "If this is chastened I'll take it. From you, mind. Only from you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Sorry if you wanted a fluffier ending but, well, we're back in Tommy Shelby's head this chapter and he just isn't all that fluffy sometimes. But he is happy. Ish. Apart from all the family shenanigans. So that's it for this story... not forever, just for now. There's still the whole rest of the AU. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the amazing comments on previous chapters. And for leaving kudos...and for just reading at all. It means a lot, I love to hear from you!


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